The King's Agent (36 page)

Michelangelo frowned with sympathy at her crestfallen visage; gone was the vibrant beauty ready to take on the grandest city in all of Europe.

“Wait, my dear. Wait just a moment.”

He rushed away with the insistent command, hastening up the stairs and just as quickly back down. He brought with him the loveliest shawl she had ever seen, a shimmering silk triangle, the tassel beads sparkling as they tinkled together, the green vines and yellow flowers vibrant against the purple background. It matched, to perfection, the pale lavender of her new spring gown.

With tender attention to her hand, he wrapped it round her, positioning it with an artful eye and a motherly cluck of his tongue, perfectly camouflaging her sling, tying the ends upon her opposite hip. It made her look ever more festive despite the lump of her cradled arm beneath.

“It was my mother’s,” he told her softly, stepping back to survey his handiwork.

Aurelia’s heart trembled; she could but imagine what it must mean to him.

Michelangelo reached forward, one last adjustment made with thumb and index finger, as if he took his chisel to stone for one last perfect strike. Aurelia took his hand before he drew it away. “I will cherish the moments within its care.”

His lips twitched beneath the wiry black hair and he closed his eyes in silent acknowledgment.

“Then let us be off, shall we?” He held out one crooked elbow and led her to the door. “There is so very much to show you.”

Aurelia smiled at Battista from over her shoulder as they stepped out into the overcast day.

“Rome needs no sun to sparkle with brilliance,” Michelangelo chirped, waving at the low clouds, denying them any power.

From his doorstep, he led them to the left, along the rising Via della Bottegha Oscure, toward the hill in the near distance.

“Oh, what a disappointment.” Michelangelo pouted as he watched Aurelia drop the veil over her eyes. “I had hoped to squire about a beautiful woman through the streets of Rome. All my friends would be so very jealous.”

Aurelia tossed her head and laughed. “I am sure there are many beautiful women in Rome, far more beautiful than I. It is only proper for me to don my veil.”

Michelangelo peered at her through the tops of his eyes, a dark skeptical glint in the bright amber, and she squirmed beneath the scrutiny; the artist saw far more than was good for either of them.

“Even through your lace,
donna mia,
your particular shine blazes through.”

She dipped her head at him as he called to Battista over his shoulder.

“Come,
amico karissimo,
I would have both my beautiful guests beside me.”

Battista caught up to them with a few large strides and smiled at her over Michelangelo’s head. The artist began his tour as he used their strength and youth to assist him up the rise.

“This is one of the seven great hills of Rome. From here, we may see much of the city spread out before us, a banquet at our feet, to be devoured, each delicious bite.” As they leaned into their climb, he gestured his bearded chin at the great palazzos flanking the broad lane. “If you look closely at some of the surrounding grounds, you may see the protrusion of ancient ruins, those built by the Sabines.”

They came to the summit and he led them into a small circular cobbled piazza, open on both the north and south sides, a petite fountain at its center, the small cherub dribbling water stingily from its overturned vessel. As a haze of sunshine struggled through thinning cloud cover, the splendor of Rome created a sparkling vista.

Aurelia could not breathe for the beauty of it; everywhere she sent her gaze it landed upon triumphs of architecture and antiquity, grandeur enticing visitors to this city from the world over: temples, chapels, arches, and palaces. Masterpieces both ancient and modern, designed and constructed by artists far ahead of their time, like Hadrian, and those of recent years, such as Bramante, who did their utmost to be as worthy as their predecessors.

“The city is so very different than the first time I saw it,” Michelangelo said pensively.

Aurelia tugged her gaze from the landscape to the small man beside her. “Were you not happy to be here?”

He dismissed his past with a twitch of his shoulder. “I had left Florence an unhappy young man ... frustrated and confused ... and came upon this metropolis that was, then, no more than a waste heap.”

“Certamente, no!”
Aurelia protested with a breathy objection, throwing back the veil as if it distorted the truth.

“It is true, my dear. I thought the Vandals had sacked it once more. More than half the buildings were gutted or abandoned, goats and pigs grazed as if they owned the land, garbage was piled everywhere. And the stench?” His wrinkled face scrunched at the memory of it. “Between the refuse, the dead animals left to rot in the streets, and the open dung holes, it was hard to walk about without becoming nauseated. Only the assurance of my friend Leo Baglioni convinced me it was the truth of the city. At the time.”

He took a step away, holding out his arms as if to embrace the city. “But even then the work had begun, and now ... look. It is magnificent, no?”

Without waiting for their agreement, for they must agree, he reached out a hand, guiding her eye to the treasures surrounding the hill with a heavy-knuckled finger. In the distance to the east, the half-tumbled, dark stones of the Coliseum stood amidst the glimmering bright stone of the resplendent palazzos edging it; the imposing ruins of the Forum poked at the sky in the foreground, almost at their feet.

“In Greek, the word
Pantheon
means ‘to every God.’ Did you know that, Aurelia?” Michelangelo pointed north, directing her appraisal to the sharp roof and columns of the temple.

“I did,” she answered without hesitation. She thought more lay in the depths of his query and she knew subterfuge to be a futile exercise with this man and no longer bothered with it. “Rome was a great pagan Mecca. A shining example of acceptance for any faith and spirituality, such as it was, before Constantine and the Vatican.”

Michelangelo sniffed. “
Sì,
before the Vatican.”

As if called forth at the mention, the artist swept his hand toward the west. Clearly visible across the sparkling Tiber River snaked the outlines of the Leonine Wall surrounding Vatican City, distinct against the clearing sky, the pointed obelisk rising up into the air. Just to the east of it, they could see the daunting silhouette of the fortress of Sant’Angelo.

“Shall we make our way there?” Michelangelo suggested, his young company agreeing heartily.

As they trudged down the hill and through the narrow, winding streets, Michelangelo continued his monologue, detailing the history of every church and palace, temple and ruin they passed, rising to the role of guide with palpable relish.

The city roiled with a bevy of activity, humming with noise and dynamic energy. Though its population had declined greatly in the scourge of plague that passed but five years ago, still a bit more than half a million people called Rome their home. There could be no avoiding the odors of life with such a populace, though the municipal improvements had done much to keep it but a thin tang lost almost in the redolence of cuisine and cultivation.

He brought them through the Campo Fiori and its vast marketplace scented by the fecundity of fresh vegetables, cheese, fruits, and flowers. They scuttled through rows of colorful stalls and the crowds, the conflux of languages spoken creating a pastiche of sound.

“Rome is not a city unto itself, but many within the one.” Michelangelo raised his gravelly voice over the din. “There are Germans, Arabs, French, and more, each with their own quarter, even the Jews. It is a celebration of mankind, but one that could easily become a riot with the utterance of a single wrong word.”

He preened as he guided them, like a cock of the walk, and though he did not stop to speak to anyone—avoiding the need for introductions—he displayed them by his side with a protective pride bordering on the possessive. Many recognized Battista and called him greetings and good cheer, but he dallied no more than demanded by good manners, guarding Aurelia’s anonymity as stridently as Michelangelo.

“What draws those people?” she asked of her guide as they meandered through a small intersection, a crowd of people gathered before a curved wall.

Michelangelo clapped his hands together. “Wonderful. There must be a new posting. You will find this most interesting.”

The triumvirate approached the gathering, peering over and around the dozen or so people. One fresh piece of vellum, its ink clear and its edges untattered, stood out upon the layers of others much less intact, and gummed to the stone base of the oddest-looking sculpture Aurelia had ever seen. Missing both its arms—a rusted metal rod protruded from one shoulder—and both its legs—one cut off at the knee, the other at the hip—the face of the figure had all but vanished as time and weather had worn it down.

“What manner of lunacy is this?” she whispered, incredulous.

Michelangelo smiled. “It is, or was, a bust of Menelaus,” he explained. “The creator has never been definitively attributed. However, common thought places its genesis in the Hellenistic period, a few centuries before the birth of Christ, or thereabouts. But only recently did the gentleman obtain his current moniker. They call him Pasquino.”

Aurelia raised a brow at him. “Pasquino?”

“Indeed.” Battista smiled, taking up the story, clearly one he warmed to, though he lowered his mouth closer to Aurelia and his voice dropped in his throat. “Censorship is strong in Rome, perhaps more so than elsewhere on the peninsula. It has become the custom for those who wish to speak against the popes and the Vatican to post their criticisms on such effigies scattered throughout the city.”

“Talking statues,” Michelangelo interjected.

Battista nodded. “Just so. This one in particular has become quite famous. For many years, it was the site of the most erudite and scathing slander made against the pope. It became clear to the locals that the broadsheets were the work of the tailor, one who served the papal court, whose shop lay very near to this spot. Just around the corner, there.” He pointed to the narrow road running off to the east. “He was as widely known for his intellect and wit as for his skill with needle and thread. Not long after the neighborhood folk surmised that the tailor, Pasquino by name, was the author did he go missing. Never to be seen or heard from again.”

“Never?” Aurelia’s voice squeaked.

“Never,” Michelangelo and Battista chorused.

As the word died upon his tongue, the slim and slight Michelangelo turned, slipping sideways into the crowd, leaning close to the parchment with squinting eyes.

“What is it?” Battista asked as his friend rejoined them.

Michelangelo shook his head. “Nothing. It is ... no, nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Battista put a hand upon the artist’s shoulder. “You seemed troubled.”

“Not troubled. Thoughtful, no more. Come, there is much left to see.”

The sun, now fully revealed, beat down upon their heads from its early afternoon perch and the stream of people in the streets thinned as the residents made for their repasts and their rests.

“I shall take you to the Hostaria dell’Orso. It is not only the cleanest inn in the city, it is my favorite,” Michelangelo chirped as he led them through the Piazza Fiammetta, so named for the mistress of Cesare Borgia, the son of the pope, and on, to the shade of the Palazzo di Riario. Diagonally across from the square angles of the cream stone building stood the Inn of the Bear. The tables, set out on a flagstone terrace, were tucked into the coolness of a vine-covered arbor edged with classical columns.

Both staff and owner of the
hostaria
greeted Michelangelo with the acquaintance of family, seating them at the best table, in the far corner snuggled deep in the shadows, only pinpoints of dappling sun dusting the cubby with its light. They sat at the round cherrywood table—their backs to the vines with the little yellow flowers—one on each side of Michelangelo, as instructed. From here, they could see the comings and goings on the crisscrossing streets and the other tables on the terrace.

“Just beyond that turn, on the Via Sistina, is my old house, my first home here in Rome.” Michelangelo pointed the way with a small snigger. “It was very small and very cold, and yet some fond memories linger.”

“People have a wonderful capacity to forget the pain and remember only the pleasure,” Aurelia said.

“You speak the truth, my dear, for the preservation of our hearts and our souls. And yet we must learn from our pain, while we forget it.” He raised a tankard in salute. “To the human conundrum.”

Michelangelo ordered them all a serving of the soup of the country, crusty loaves of bread scooped out and filled with fish and tomato gravy. Aurelia ate greedily, soon finishing the broth, spicy with oregano and garlic, and the chunks of tender fish, and began tearing off pieces of the edible bowl, now soaked and flavorful, and munched on them slowly, enjoying every morsel. The activity of the morning had done much to restore her spiritless appetite, and the fresh air—the tang of the river just to their north—did much to reinvigorate her thirst. Once more, she found herself swelling with joy at forbidden adventure.

Her hearty feasting continued unabated, the indulgent smiles of her companions as they watched her unnoticed.

“It is not often I find myself in the company of such beautiful people,” Michelangelo mused, sitting back, taking his tankard with him. “I am a lucky man to have such companions.”

“We are equally as grateful for your company,
amico mio,
” Battista assured him, taking a last bite of his bread and a hand-covered belch, having eaten every bite put before him.

Michelangelo grinned. “I agree. We three make a fine group. But I regard your physical beauty.” The artist’s critical appraisal brushed along the curves of their faces and the dichotomous yet equally pleasing shapes of their bodies.

“What there is between you enhances each other’s beauty,” he continued, ignoring the shared tender gaze between them and the slight bloom warming Aurelia’s cheeks. Michelangelo threw back a gulp of wine and leaned forward, elbows on the table as he looked keenly at her.